Peering up through a break in the
forest canopy, Bob takes a moment to enjoy a shaft of sunlight that
slices into the gloom like a giant spear. He breathes a long sigh as
the sun warms his face, the bright light turning his closed eyelids
red. Humming quietly, Bob steps out of the warm rays and back into
the surrounding shadows, blinking as his eyes readjust to the
semi-darkness.
“Why,” he asks himself, “am I
wandering through this darkness when the sky above is so inviting?”
Giving a chuckle, he answers his own
question. “Money, of course, money and power and knowledge, the
only true lights in this
world.”
Bob
slips through a particularly dense patch off undergrowth and
continues his trek. The forest itself is silent, the only sounds are
the whiskwhisk of
leaves sliding against his leather vest, or the soft crunch of wet
leaves beneath his boots.
Just
as Bob is getting back into a rhythm, a flicker of movement out of
the corner of his eye sends him diving instinctively to the ground.
The thwap of two bows
released almost simultaneously is followed by two much louder thunks
as the thick shafts sink deeply into a tree next to where Bob was
walking only moments before.
“Shit,”
comes from the left, carrying clearly through the quiet of the
forest.
“Quiet,
fool!” hisses another, near the first.
That
was all Bob needed to pinpoint the location of his would-be
assassins. Smirking, he leaps to his feet as a few arcane words roll
off his tongue. The runes tatooed along his arms, over his
shoulders, and down his chest and back flare slightly as his
life-force feeds power into the spell. A quick glance allows Bob to
spot both men, the whites of their wideneed eyes enhanced tenfold
from the magic now coursing through his body.
Touching
his index finger to his thumb, Bob releases the focused magic towards
the two men, a single point of energy flying faster than an arrow at
each of them. There is no sound when they hit, only a final gasp as
the men crumple to the ground, dropping their bows.
Straightening,
Bob brushes off the leaves stuck to his vest and trousers, and scans
the brush for additional threats. Finding none, he quietly wades
through the intervening undergrowth and arrives beside the body of
the first assassin.
“A
little more discipline, and it would be you standing over me,” says
Bob, quietly rubbing his left arm with his right hand. His skin
tingles after using the runes, and though rubbing them does no good,
it has become a habit to run his fingers along the raised lines. The
burning stopped long ago, when the runes first started showing up,
and now he was just getting used to the tingling. A leaf slides off
his arm as Bob rubs his skin, and floats down to briefly rest on the
mans right leg, before sliding off and disappearing into the pile of
leaves already surrounding the body.
Bob
drops to a knee beside the man and briskly pats him down, withdrawing
a small coin purse and a smudged gold ring, but finding nothing
indicating who he was or what he was doing here. Not that he needed
any indication, the Affiliates were the only ones who sent assassins
after the rune-touched.
The only ones with the balls.
The
second man was equally uninformative, but younger than the first, and
smelled faintly of oil.
Opening the purse, Bob retrieves a few odds
and ends along with a single silver coin with a large star stamped in
the center. Not a waste of time after all.
He
dumps the junk, snaps the bows, and pockets the ring and coin.
Silver is silver, after all, even if it's stamped with the Affiliates
mark.
“Hopefully,”
thinks Bob, “there's more out here than arrows and ugly silver.”
Pulling
two fresh arows from the quiver of the first body, Bob shoves one
into each corpse, filling the holes made by magic, with wood. He
then kicks up some leaves around where he walked, and retraces his
steps to check for anything he may have dropped. Finding nothing,
Bob glances around one last time.
Perfect.
An encounter with a rune-touched now looks like a routine encounter
between bandits.
With
a wry smile, Bob begins humming, picking up where he left off before
the ambush. Lady on the knoll
begins once again waftingg through the quiet of the forest,
punctuated by the crunch of leaves beneath his feet, and the
whiskwhisk of leaves
brushing against his clothes.
-----------------------
Outside the forest, the sun slowly
dips towards the horizon, painting the sky with a wash of reds and
yellows and purples. Beneath the canopy, the shadows gain shadows,
dark corners vanish into dark glades, and only faint shafts of red
and yellow are visible between the leaves.
A small group of cloaked figures move
laboriously along a deeply rutted track. Though clearly attempting
to be quiet, each carries a visibly heavy load, causing them to
stumble, grunt, and curse. A lone figure remains unburdened, and
leads the group through the trees with an arrow nocked, eyes
scanning.
Another lone figure, lurking in the
fading light, watches the group move with obscene glee. Bob leans
against a tree with his arms crossed, patiently waiting. As the
leader reaches a light spot under a break in the canopy, Bob takes a
deep breath and slips behind the tree he was leaning against.
“Those look heavy, friends,”
bellows Bob from behind the tree, “why not lay them down--”
An arrow thunks into the tree behind
which Bob hides, cutting him off mid-sentence.
“More where that came from,
stranger,” calls the leader, punctuating the last word with a
second arrow into the tree next to the first. “We've neither
charity nor trust for voices in the dark. Show yourself!”
“None of you need die, I've killed
enough for one day, so lets talk options.” Bringing his arms up to
cross over his chest, Bob mutters a quick phrase and the lines on his
skin flare brightly blue-green.
A collective gasp goes up from the
group as Bob steps out from behind the tree, the runes glowing
through his clothes and temporarily blinding them in the sudden
illumination. All but the leader, who recognizes immediately the
image, and the danger, represented in the man now glowing before
them.
“Get down!” yells Puc, as he
looses his third arrow. Not waiting for the effect of his shot, Puc
dives into the brush and begins rummaging through his pouch. He
figures there are only moments left for him to apply the tincture on
his arrows. An ancient magic, arrows supposedly dipped in it would,
or so the old crone said, pierce the protection afforded rune-touched
and allow archers to kill them.
So the old crone said.
Bob sniffs disdainfully as Puc's third
arrow glances off his arm without leaving so much as a scratch.
“I'm afraid that's simply not how
you negotiate, at least not where I come from, archer.” growls Bob
as he brings his right hand up and hisses a phrase. Light flashes
out of his hand and flies over to suspend above the group, turning
the dusky gloom into midday. He beings mumbling again as he eyes the
few who are too stunned to heed Puc's command.
Puc, meanwhile, locates the small
dusty bottle and rips the tiny cork out of the top, releasing a foul
odor like a rotting corpse. Gagging, but urged on by the sound of
Bob's mumbling incantations, he quickly taps a few drops onto the
head of his lucky arrow. The slimy solution oozes ever so slowly
onto the pocked arrowhead, hissing and smoking as it sinks in,
turning the splotchy steel a deep black.
As Bob's incantation rises in volume
and tempo, Puc realizes that his time is up. In one smooth motion,
he fits arrow to string, lifts to a knee, then aims and fires at Bob.
As the arrow leaves the bow, Puc experiences a tugging sensation,
then a brief sense of loss and weakness, as something of his own
energy accompanies the arrow towards Bob.
With crystal clarity, Puc watches the
arrow streak towards Bob. When it encounters his crossed arms, a
sensation of pressure fills the area, as though everyone is
underwater, then with a light pop
the arrow blasts through Bob's arms and into his chest, pinning his
crossed arms as he topples onto his back. The glowing lines flare
and blink out as he falls, and the last word of Bob's unfinished
spell hangs in the air.
The
pressure evaporates, silence and darkness once more descend on the
forest. Everyone is temporarily blind by the sudden gloom, and only
the sounds of the men's panicked breathing break the quiet.
Drawing
a shaky breath, Puc climbs painfully to his feet, surreptitiously
slipping the dusty bottle back into his pouch.
“UP!
We move! Now!” barks Puc. “Lets put some miles between us and
this foul place.” No one complains as they shoulder their packs
and continue on their way. A few mutter the words 'rune-touched',
but aside from a few wary glances, none dare question Puc.
-----------------------
“All right, maggots! Stand up
straight, shoulders back, chin up, arms extended and thumbs aligned
with the seams on your pants!”
Surveying the pitiful ranks of raw
recruits in loose formation on the Green, the Sergeant gives a
single, barking laugh.
“Not even close!” His raspy
baritone carries in the cool, crisp morning air. “I've seen
milk-maids with better posture, children with more discipline, and
cows with more sense.”
A compact, powerfully built man, he
stands with feet planted firmly a shoulders-width apart, hands
clasped at the small of his back. His perfectly ironed uniform is
spotless, boots winking even in the dim light of the pre-dawn hour.
His chest is pushed out and his head back, so that his rows of medals
hang out over a cliff in his uniform shirt, and despite his short
stature, he appears to be looking down on us recruits.
“My name is Sergeant Harlon, but
for the present, you will refer to me as Sergeant. Do you
understand?”
A few feeble exclamations of “yes”
and “yessir” come dribbling out of our ranks.
“When I ask you a question, you
will respond loudly, you will respond together, and you will say 'Yes
Sergeant' or 'No Sergeant'. Do you understand?”
Unable to get in sync, we shouted
out, “Yes Sergeant!”, sounding like a handful of pebbles dribbled
into a barrel.
“I said,” he pauses briefly,
then, even louder, “Do you understand?”
Suddenly, as though finding our
collective rhythm, and our volume, we belt out all three syllables in
unison. “Yes Ser-geant!”
The force and beauty of it washes over us, and a few grins break out.
“Lock it up, stand at attention
and wipe those smirks off your faces.” Despite the harsh words, we
received a curt nod. “My job, and the whole of your existence for
the next six months, is to turn you lot into something useful to the
King. I will run you until you puke up every meal your mother
spoonfed you. I will train you, and break you down until the pain
drives the weakness from your bodies.”
Across the camp, as the sky slowly
opens itself to the first rays of the still slumbering sun, some of
the more senior recruits were moving quickly to places and on tasks
still mysterious to us. Fires rekindled; a door slaps open, then
shut; a dog stars barking in the distance, and Sergeant Harlon
continues.
“Then I will deliver you into the
hands of our Master Armsman, who will teach you the sword, the spear,
the shield, and the horse. These are the tools of war, but you are
far from warriors. Some of you will never be warriors, some of you
will be broken and stay broken. Some of you will recognize the
coward in your heart and walk out those gates directly behind you.”
He pauses, pointing at the heavy wooden gate that represents the only
entrance to the training facility. We glance back, but only briefly,
and when he resumes our eyes snap forward again. “Just as my
training will purge your bodies of weakness, so too will it purge the
body of this army of it's weakness. To each I will say, good
riddance!”
Not daring to turn my head, I
surreptitiously eye the recruit directly in front of me. His
mud-stained overalls and sweat-stained white undershirt mark him as a
laborer, or rather a farmer if that manure smell is coming from him.
The man to his right is much skinnier, and doesn't have the sun
darkened complexion or stocky frame of the men on either side. His
ink-stained index fingers tell of a clerk of some sort, and the
sloping shoulders indicate a distinct lack of previous physical
exertion.
“Today will be primarily consumed
by administrative necessities; issuing uniforms and equipment. You
are responsible for cleaning, pressing, and if the need arises,
repairing said uniforms. This will be done on your time, not mine,
and will be inspected every morning. You will all meet my
satisfaction before any of you eats a bite, and if the breakfast hour
passes before I am satisfied, we will try again at lunch.”
An itch begins to develop on the
left side of my face, to the point where it begins twitching. Even
three rows back, I don't dare move to relieve it for fear of being
spotted and called out. As it steadily becomes more and more
insistent, my willpower and caution begin to crumble.
“In addition, you will be issued
some basic supplies.” As Sergeant Harlon goes on about our gear,
most of which I don't recognize, the itch on the side of my face
starts moving towards my nose. This is shaping up to be a long day.
“Puc!”
A loud, harsh voice breaks my reverie,
drawing my attention to the building behind me. I quickly finish
tethering my horse and move onto the porch, then push through the
screen and into the smoky interior. I pause briefly on entering to
let my eyes grow accustomed to the gloom.
“Puc! Stop standing there blinking
like an owl and come look at this map with me. Our caravan leaves
shortly and I want your opinion on a few particulars.”
The speaker is a squat, powerful man,
not unlike my Sergeant in the army, in both appearance and manner. A
good boss, and a great friend, is Bellum. I quickly move to the table
opposite him and bend over to survey our route.
“See there?” Bellum indicates a
stretch of land squeezed between an almost solid block of elevation
lines. “Once inside that pass, we will be at our most vulnerable
from elevated archers. Hell, a gaggle of children throwing rocks
could cause serious damage, and ten men with shields and stout hearts
could keep us penned indefinitely.”
“Indeed,” I reply. I frown
thoughtfully, “Any chance of a few extra scouts to check that out
and shadow us through? How about--”
“--the Brothers William?”
interrupted Bellum with a smile, “I've sent for them. However, we
won't necessarily be able to have them shadow the whole way, nor
would they be much good alone, and it would cost too many men to
blanket the hills how I'd like.”
“How about a bluff?” I look up and
meet his eyes, finding confusion writ large there. “Put every
swinging dick in a helmet with a bow and quiver, teach them how to
hold it, then just move through as fast as possible. Hopefully, by
the time they've done thinking twice, we'll be out and through.”
“Even so,” replied Bellum,
“expecting an armed resistance and holding good ground, anything
less than arrow speed will be stopped cold by a decently organized
force.”
I lean back on my heels, and a thought
occurs, “Then two convoys. One, a feint, disguised as tinkers, or
better yet farmers, a day a head to--”
“Ohh, yes!” Bellum looks up
thoughtfully as I finish.
“--swing around and fall on any
blocking force. Yes, I see you understand, and the Brothers would--”
I stop abruptly as the door slams open.
“Would what?” cries a cheerful
voice from the doorway. A bright, unruly mop of red hair caps a
boyish face set in shades of glee, replaced briefly by surprise as a
second fiery head and equally, nay identically, boyish countenance
pushes past the first and into the room.
“Special duty means special pay, eh
Belly?” crows the second.
The Brothers William, so named for
both being named William and none save their mother able to tell them
apart. Even seen together, and they're never apart, I can't tell one
William from the other, a fact they seem delighted to instigate at
every opportunity. Dressed identically in leather cuirass' and kilt,
white linen backing and tunic, with a sheathed gladius on the right
hip and bolt box on the left, fastened around the middle by a wide
black belt and identical, and identically gleaming, wolfs-head
buckles, they cut the perfect image of a pair of regular infantry.
Indeed, one could easily mistake them for that were it not for the
cross-strapped back harness each proudly wears, on which hangs by
clever contraption their own custom made, dual bolt drop-trigger
hemlock crossbows. Beautiful and terrible, their stocks and gears
shine with regular oiling. The deep black twin crossbars rest within
brass lockings. Of course, all that can be seen from the front is
the shoulder stock jutting above each brother's head, but once seen,
one does not forget such weapons.
Bellum guffaws. “You'll take regular
pay or we'll cut you out of the fun!”
Both Brothers laugh, the first
replying, “Wait, we didn't mean it, we're in, we're in!” Throwing
an arm over each other's shoulders, they completely fill the doorway
and block most of the light. “Can't believe we missed out on that
last jaunt of yours, Puc!”
“Yeah,” chimes in the first, “Is
it true you faced a Runie?” Identical faces lean forward, peering
impishly at me through the smoke.
My chest begins to itch, which gives
me pause, but I ignore it and meet their expectant gazes for a moment
before replying, “Yes, now lets get back to the--,” and begin to
turn back towards the map.
“Oh, come on!” cries the second
“We've only heard it second hand!”
complains the first.
“We want to hear it from the hand
that did the deed!”
“The hand that led the steed!”
“The hand that--”
Bellum slams his hand down on the map
table, bringing the Brothers up short. “Plenty of time on the road
for tall tales of valor and adventure.” The Brother's grin wide.
“Now, how much did you overhear while eavesdropping outside?”
One Brother assumes a hurt expression,
but the other pipes up too quickly, “All of it, and it's brilliant!
Can I dress up as the farmer's daughter?”
Bellum groans, but can't conceal a
small smile at the thought.
“Looks like a yes to me, eh brother
Willy?” One nudges the other, “You can be the donkey” His face
brightens immediately, and opens his mouth to reply when Bellum
interrupts again.
“You're both natural asses,” he
concedes, “now knock it off or we'll hitch you to the wagon and
make you pull it all the way to Tallanvar!”
After a good laugh at that, we all
crowd around the map and settle down to business. Provisions,
weapons, men, beasts, spare parts, and, of course, whiskey.
Our first day, and for many
thereafter, we did little more than sweat, bleed, and ache. Sweat
all day, bleed in the evenings, and ache all night and into morning.
Sweat swallowed ache, blood swallowed sweat, ache swallowed blood.
While the instructors called it conditioning, we all knew it by the
name it was given by those who had come before: the culling. It
quickly became apparent why this first part of our training had
earned that name, as the weak of mind, of will, body, or spirit began
quitting in earnest.
Some calmly reached their limit and
left mid-exercise, unmolested as they limped out of the gates under
the watchful sneer of Sergeant Harlon. Others tried to avoid that
sneer by spiriting off in the night, only to be dragged back and
escorted out during morning formation. One, a larger, bullish sort,
tried to strong-arm the instructor into stopping. The instructor
gave a peculiar, high pitched whistle and like magic, two other
trainers came sprinting around a nearby hut and barreled into the
recruit. The three of them quickly subdued, thrashed, and then
ejected said recruit out those selfsame gates. There were no more
attempts like that in our class.
I gradually developed my rhythm,
and while I didn't precisely get accustomed to the regimen, I did
grow comfortable in my misery. I also got to know some of my fellow
sufferers, despite very little time or energy to do so. The hour or
so alotted every night for uniform and gear maintenance, not enough
by half, was spent swapping backgrounds, stories, plans for liberty
and hopes for the future.
Benji, the diminutive, ink-stained
fellow I saw in our initial line-up turned out to be made of far
sterner stuff than most print shop clerks. After two months, his
ink-stained hands were no longer ink-stained, but were rough and
covered in hard-won callouses. His face was darker, and leaner, and
his eyes held an energy that hadn't been there before. His body,
like the rest of us, had transformed likewise.
Growing up in the large city of
Tenencue gave him a world of knowledge, augmented by his work in the
print shop. Questions, even if asked rhetorically, often found
themselves answered by Benji. Orphaned from birth, raised by the
church, he'd lucked into his previous occupation. His dreams
consisted of his own print shop, maybe a family. Found one day
copying runes out of an old, dusty book he'd discovered in the church
archives, he was thrown out of the print shop and threatened with the
mines or the military.
“I had ya figured for the gates
a'fore the first sundown, Pinkie!” laughs Gordo, “I guess if the
choice is here or the mines, your still being here ain't as
surprising.”
Gordo was an affable sort, large of
frame and personality. The sort of person cowards instinctively fear
and children instinctively trust. He was raised on his family's farm
in Glentown, a tiny village no one here had every heard of, let alone
visited. His easy manner belied an inner strength which manifested
itself most keenly in defense of a friend or pursuit of a foe. His
dreams, like Benji's, were modest and provincial, one day hoping to
continue his father's farm as his eldest son. So, too, had fate
dealt Gordo a blow to those aims, his handsome visage catching the
eye of a local townswoman, and the ire of her jealous husband.
Unfortunately for young Gordo, said
husband happened to be the magistrate for Glentown, and in his cups
one night accused him of attempting to seduce his wife away. Given
this magistrate was the only magistrate for Glentown, a guilty
verdict was practically certain. Gordo's father, interceding on his
behalf, made a deal with the magistrate: enlistment for not less than
four years in exchange for dropping the case. Since rejecting such a
deal would make the magistrate appear petty, and furthermore rob the
King's army of a strapping young recruit, it was an easy sell, and
off he went.
For a journey expected to last two
months, the first week is always a settling in period. A time during
which everyone becomes familiar with everyone else, and each member
finds their place and falls into their routine.
Most of this trip was expected to be
relatively safe, so aside from scouting and other mundane security
concerns, the good weather and steady pace put everyone in good
spirits. I was certainly enjoying stretching my legs. One of my
duties as one of our better woodsmen was bringing in whatever game I
could while scouting ahead and to our flanks. In addition to
maintaining the distance between our actual convoy and the decoy the
Brother's occupied to our front, I was anxious to keep our flanks
clear of any shadows seeking to track our movements.
We were nearing Boulderville, a town
named for it's unique countryside, in which massive rocks reared
placidly among a lightly forested, craggy terrain. Due to the
rockiness of the soil, there was very little in the way of
undergrowth, and the trees were gnarled, hard-bitten things covered
in thorns. It was a place very like the occupants of the nearby
town; a hard peoples, independent and swarthy, minimalist in both
affectation and possessions. Given the town's distance from the
protection afforded larger cities like Ciandry and Polentsia, and
it's proximity to the bandit-rich country we were heading towards,
such attributes are unsurprising.
I move almost silently, as there are
few leaves and sticks to betray my feet, and those easily avoided.
Sound, however, is a minor concern. Due to the scarcity of
vegetation (there is almost none), visibility is nearly unimpeded
save for the boulders. I could easily see far beyond earshot, which
made scouting easy, but made approaching to within bowshot of any
game very difficult.
There, just fifty yards away, the
hindquarters of a deer peeks out from behind a massive boulder. I
hitch my bow ever so gently, nock an arrow, and check my footing. A
little closer, perhaps. Come a little wide, get an angle on it's
shoulder. The tail swishes, and it takes a step forward. Almost
there, I bring up my bow and draw fletching to ear. One last glance
at the ground, two more steps, aim a little low, and...
I feel the feathers brush my cheek,
then glide, as if in slow motion, over my thumb. I don't hear the
string slap my bracer, but it must have made a sound, because I watch
the deer drop into a crouch just before the arrow reaches it. A soft
thud as the arrow strikes home, and the buck (I can see the antlers
now), only makes the minutest movement upwards before it's legs
collapse and it falls, dead on it's feet.
I exhale, and bring the bow down to my
side. A doe, hidden behind the rock, flashes away to the left,
already at full speed, bounding along in that weightless way they
move.
In an instant, everything slows down
and time seems to freeze, and I see, almost like I'm remembering it,
where to put the arrows. I feel detached, and realize distantly that
I have plenty of time, nothing to it. Before I know what's happening
I raise my bow, aim almost casually an arrow I don't remember
nocking, and release with a sigh.
What's left of my rational mind is
immediately disappointed. The shot is high enough an arc to surely
catch a branch, and too far left by at least a span. Yet, in a daze,
I confidently watch it slowly undulate as it slips past branch after
branch, limb after leaf, settling in for what appears to be a
spectacular miss. Too high by half, as well, I note.
Right before the arrow would have slid
by the deer like two ships passing in the night, the doe spooks from
the right and leaps wildly to the left, directly into it's path. The
sound of the impact doesn't reach my ears until the deer has crumpled
to the ground, dead like it's mate.
Time suddenly crashes forward, and
pain explodes in my chest. It feels like my skin is on fire! I fall
to my knees as my head becomes light and my vision rapidly tunnels.
A single leaf fills my vision and I realize I'm going to pass--
“Today, you begin learning the
rudest basics of the archer, a title few will every earn. However,
the king does not need many archers, for the poorest marksmen can
still hit a massed charge in a pinch.” Sergeant Harlon indicates
the tall, thin man standing beside him. He is dressed in mottled
greens and browns under a light leather jerkin. An unstrung bow and
several feathered shafts peek out over his left shoulder. Side-laced
buckskin pants cover his long legs, tucked into muddy leather boots
with soft soles. “This man is Gruber, our master archer and scout,
and under his care you will learn this weapon.” With a last glance
at us, Sergeant Harlon stomps off.
Gruber steps forward at once and
beings to address our formation in a low, raspy voice. “This
training will take place in three stages. First, you will learn
care, maintenance, and storage of the weapon. Second will be aiming
and firing, and finally you will learn how to work as a unit,
maintaining an acceptable rate of fire that doesn't make a mockery of
accuracy.” He pauses, his bird-like eyes scanning our ranks, his
sharp nose seeming to pick us out one by one for death.
The sun beats down out of a clear
blue sky. It's about nine am. Our morning inspection went well for
a change, well enough for us to breakfast at length, a more common
occurrence in this third month of training.
Gruber steps over to a table near
our first rank, on which is arrayed a number of small pouches and
piles of bracers. A barrel full of bow staves of various lengths
rests alongside the table, while corked jugs and a piles of rags rest
below.
“Each of you will come when
called to the table, where I will assign you a stave appropriate to
your height, a string to match, and a bracer. You will whet a rag
with oil from the jugs below, careful that you only whet it, and not
yourselves or the ground. Then you will return to your place and
await further instructions.”
“First rank, first man, come
forward now. Second man follow when he returns, et cetera on down
the line.”
In no time at all, each of us is
equipped as described. I assess my stave, check the nockings and
grain, and with a practiced eye gained from years under my father's
teachings, can't help but admire the craftsmanship. Clearly this
army takes archery seriously. Not a prince's weapon, but straight
and true, and the flex, divine. Unstrung it stands chest high, the
slight curvature of the yew gleams dully in the bright sun.
“Once a day, or as often as
possible barring that, and especially following exposure to rain or
snow, you'll apply a thin, even coat of linseed oil and rub it in
until there is no residue. This maintains the integrity of the wood,
prevents dryness, cracking, and warping. Stow the strings and
bracers and begin with the rag in your hand. When you think it's
done, raise it high. Be seated, and begin.”
We sit, and begin. As bows are
raised, Gruber rasps that they're unevenly done, not absorbed fully,
or acceptable. I learned this process from my father, a great archer
in his day, as I hope to be in mine. Taking my time, I slowly
massage the oil evenly into the stave until it once again shows that
dull gleam uniformly, nock to nock. I raise my bow and receive a
cursory glance followed by a quick nod.
“Help your neighbor, Puc,
he's got more oil on himself than his bow.”
True enough, Gordo must have
slopped the jug over his hand instead of whetting the rag, and was
now attempting to wipe the excess off his hand and bow onto his
person. I hand him my rag, and pinch a corner of his and set it
aside. “Dry your hand on your tunic, hand me your bow.” I reach
over and pluck it from his hands, gripping it between thumb and
forefinger near the grip.
Once dry, Gordo reaches over with
an open hand. Passing him the bow, I say, “It only requires a
little oil to do the whole thing, too much and you'll soften the
wood, killing it's natural spring.”
“That's exactly right.” rasps
Gruber from directly behind us, startling us both and almost causing
Gordo to drop his bow. Neither of us had seen him move, nor heard
him approach. If he moves like a snake in plain sight, he must be a
ghost in the woods.
Speaking louder, he addresses the
group again, “Too much will soften the wood and ruin the bow, oil
not absorbed or removed will cause the grip to be slick in battle,
while uneven or mottled application will cause soft spots in the wood
and spoil the whole bow. This is the most important thing for an
archer to do right, everything else depends upon it.”
Consciousness returns, and I feel a
great weight against my side. My face feels wet. I lift my head and
a sharp pain explodes in the front of my skull. I groan, squeeze my
eyes shut and, gathering myself, push off the ground to hands and
knees. I reach up to touch my head and bits of leaf and sharp gravel
fall away, clumped where they hit the ground. Looking at my hand I
see red smears amidst the debris.
I glance up. The sun hasn't moved, so
I can't have been out long. I gather my bow, then rinse off my face
with a little water from my waterskin, finding in the process a small
cut on my left eyebrow. Must have hit a rock when I fell. I daub a
little salve on it to slow the bleeding.
What the hell just happened?
